


The Adventure of Kitty Riley

by Ariana (ariana_paris)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Story: The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariana_paris/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kitty Riley has started using her position as a tabloid journalist to blackmail people. After his return, Sherlock decides to do something about it, embarking on an adventure which amongst other things, involves Sherlock on a date with a girl, and creeping around in the dark with John, holding hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zinelady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinelady/gifts).



> This is a reasonably faithful rendition of _The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton_ , but based on an idea by Zinelady. It was originally written for her to use in a fanzine earlier this year but that unfortunately didn’t happen, so I thought I would post it before Season 3. Any resemblance between this Kitty Riley and any red-haired journalists with disreputable working practices is purely fortuitous. Probably.

The air was cold but dry and still, which made a nice change from the usual regime of cold, wet and windy at this time of year. Sherlock and John had been for a walk; not an oh-let’s-just-go-and-look-at-a-corpse walk, but a pointless meander along the Embankment. John had no doubt that there was some ulterior motive at play, but none was apparent even by the time they came home.

Sherlock was at his most charming; energetic, enthusiastic about some scientific experiment he felt compelled to describe to John in excruciating detail. It reminded John why he had desperately missed Sherlock while he was gone. And why somehow missing him had turned John’s affectionate feelings for him into something more.

John pushed that thought to the back of his mind. It was strange enough that he had fallen in love with a man, but being in love with Sherlock was just bizarre. There could be little doubt that the man who knew everything must have noticed, but love wasn’t Sherlock’s area, and John was content to just gravitate in Sherlock’s orbit. Platonic walks along the river were good enough, and Sherlock didn’t seem to mind John’s gaze occasionally lingering a little longer than was necessary.

“Bugger.” Sherlock checked his phone and shoved it into his pocket angrily as they reached 221 Baker Street. “We’re going to have company, John.”

“Mycroft?” asked John with amusement. The Holmes brothers had been involved in a text sparring match for the last few days over some topic John couldn’t remember. But even the thought of watching Sherlock and Mycroft engaged in a verbal pissing contest didn’t dampen his good mood.

Sherlock just grunted, his earlier cheerfulness completely gone; he shrugged off his coat when they entered the living-room, and went over to turn on the gas fire. John watched him with concern.

“Sherlock, tell me what’s going on.”

Sherlock straightened up and tapped his fingers on the mantelpiece, his brow furrowed. John expected him to do his usual passive-aggressive act, throwing himself about and huffing as if John should be able to read his mind; but Sherlock just stood by the fireplace and pulled out his phone again.

John had given up waiting for an answer and was about to make himself a cup of tea, when Sherlock lifted up the phone to show him the message.

“‘Be around in 10 minutes, Kitty... Kitty _Riley_ ‘,” John read out. “What the hell? Why is she coming here? She destroyed your reputation! Even now, half the people who recognise you still think you’re a fake. The inquest proved you genuinely solved all the crimes you’ve taken credit for and that ‘Richard Brook’ never existed, but people only remember what she wrote. That you invented, even committed, crimes to make yourself more interesting. That you are a fake.”

“Well, I am a fake,” said Sherlock in a calm voice belied by his drumming fingers and the tension in his angular features. “I faked my own death, didn’t I?”

John gritted his teeth. “You had reasons. So what, you’re going to let bygones be bygones? I’m not. I’m bloody well not. You weren’t here. You don’t know how that woman’s lies gradually crept into everyone’s mind till I couldn’t even mention your name without people giving me funny looks. Pitying looks.” He swallowed hard. “Please tell me you’re not going to work for her.”

“I’m not going to work for her.” Sherlock’s face creased into a smile that only lasted a moment. “Kitty Riley is a snake, John. No, frankly, that’s an insult to snakes. She was a junior reporter hungry for recognition when Moriarty used her, and I suppose he can take the blame for feeding that hunger. But I can share the blame. I saw her for what she was, Moriarty’s tool, but I underestimated her own thirst for power. That story got her the attention of her bosses and she was able to capitalise on it. It took months for the inquest to establish that my talents were genuine and that I had not in fact kidnapped those children, and by then, she had built up a reputation for exposing the seedy side of politics and show business. The paedophile witch hunt in the wake of the Jimmy Savile revelations gave her an opportunity to worm her way into the very heart of the Murdoch empire.”

“Trust me, I know who she is,” said John coldly. “Now stop arsing about and tell me what she’s coming here for.”

“She’s found a new outlet for her ambition. At some point, she realised that a lot of people will pay good money to stop their secrets being revealed in the media. And of course, it’s always useful to have someone owe you a favour.”

“Blackmail.”

Sherlock smiled sourly. “Yes. And we’re not just talking about dodgy politicians and TV presenters who would rather no one knew they groped a few underage girls back in the seventies. Compromising-looking photographs or innocent messages that could be easily misconstrued can also be used provided there is a shred of truth behind them.”

“Why doesn’t—” John sighed and dropped into his chair. “Yeah. Naive question. Why doesn’t anyone go to the police? I think I know the answer to that one.”

Sherlock voiced it anyway. “Because even assuming the policeman they report her to isn’t already in her pocket, their little secret will be in _The Sun_ first thing the next morning. Or, if it is legally unpublishable, circulated on the twittersphere to create an even more insidious destruction of their reputation.”

“So why is she coming here?”

“I’m a go-between. One of her current victims is an old school friend.” Sherlock hesitated a split second. “His name is Evan Brackwell. He’s standing in the Orpington by-election in two weeks’ time and someone has given Riley emails he exchanged with a young man in his would-be constituency. They’re totally innocent, but they don’t necessarily read that way. Evan isn’t so worried about the election, though the emails could spell the end of his political career because the young man is a Labour activist. But he adores his wife. They have two children and she would be devastated if she thought he was gay or seeing anyone else behind her back. He is afraid she’ll leave him... Anyway, Riley is asking for an exorbitant amount of money, and I’m negotiating a lower price.”

“You should be thinking up ways of making her stop!” said John angrily. “If anyone can do it, you can.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock with a hint of amusement. “Trust me, I’m–”

He interrupted himself and looked out of one of the front windows. John walked over to the other one and saw a dark car pull up outside.

“Jaguar XKR-S with 5.0 litre AJ-V8 GEN III Supercharged Petrol engine,” commented Sherlock. “Showing off to her male competitors.”

Riley got out of the car with the peculiar twist and rise motion of a woman wearing a short skirt, and the Jaguar pulled away. She looked up at the building, the streetlamp catching the look of satisfaction on her pale features. She looked much as she had at the widely publicised inquest into TV presenter Mark Lorrimer’s apparently accidental death; expensive suit, red hair worn loose like a young girl. For that matter, she’d looked the same at Sherlock’s inquest.

“You might want to go for a walk,” said Sherlock; when John looked over at him, he saw the twinkle of amusement in the detective’s eye. “Wouldn’t do to murder the woman in our home.”

Looking down, John realised his hands were fisted. “I’m all right,” he said. “I can control myself.”

He questioned his own resolve when Riley entered their flat, though. She greeted Sherlock politely – he ignored the greeting – and then stood by the doorway looking around the living room with a sneer, taking in the mismatched furniture and scattered possessions; for a man recently resurrected, and whose belongings had mostly been given away or put into storage, Sherlock had certainly managed to refill their flat since he moved back in. John frequently complained about it, but he felt possessive of it too; if Riley said one word about the mess, John was ready to smack her down.

But Riley instead fixed her eyes on John and raised a finely groomed eyebrow.

“Does he have to be here?” she asked Sherlock.

“Yes.”

Riley smiled sweetly. “I thought your friend Brackwell might prefer to keep things secret. That’s why he’s employing you, isn’t he? After all, the point of the exercise is that no one gets to know about his little secret.”

“John is perfectly trustworthy.”

“Shame the same can’t be said about you.” She smiled. “Look at you. Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead. I nearly lost my job over your little stint, you know. Lucky I’d had time to write a few more articles while the coroner got the inquest together and came to the conclusion that ‘Richard Brook’ had lied. I must admit, I still find it hard to believe that _he_ was the criminal mastermind.”

“You still think I am the criminal?” asked Sherlock. 

‘Rich Brook’s’ death had preoccupied the press and police for quite some time after Sherloch’s ‘suicide’. The common assumption at the time had been that Sherlock had murdered Richard Brook and then committed suicide. Fortunately, Moriarty had been involved in enough different crimes that eventually, realising he was really gone, some of his former associates had started to bargain the truth in exchange for more lenient sentences when they were caught. But in spite of this, it was apparently impossible to counter the lies Riley had originally published, and Sherlock’s return had only fanned the ill-informed rumours on the Internet.

“You have to admit that was all very strange,” said Riley, eyebrow raised in interest. “Out of the blue, a criminal mastermind known among his associates for his discretion decides to break into three institutions, goes through a whole trial, fabricates the entire Rich Brook story and then commits suicide. And meanwhile, you fake your own death, which isn’t exactly the action of an innocent man. Then a couple of years later, up you pop, fresh as a daisy and not as dead as your friend here thought.” She gave John a falsely concerned look. “The poor man was beside himself with grief, and all the time, you were hiding out God knows where and probably having a good laugh at his—”

“Evan Brackwell is not a rich man,” said Sherlock. “Seventy thousand is too much. I’ve asked you here to get you to lower your price.”

“He’s a Tory councillor in one of the wealthiest parts of Kent,” said Riley coldly. “I’m sure he can persuade some of his rich friends to ‘fund his campaign’ and then cover up the gap with a little creative accounting. His wife’s family is rather rich too. It would be a shame to lose their patronage if their daughter leaves him and takes the children with her, all because he quibbled over a sum of money that is a fraction of what he earned as a barrister.”

“He can give you twenty thousand,” said Sherlock. “It’s the best he can do.”

Riley pulled out her phone. “The emails are quite interesting, you know. Anyone who didn’t know better would think he wanted to shag this young man. I suppose you two would know all about that,” she added, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to go anywhere near a man’s arse, but then luckily, I’m not a gay man. Your friend Evan, on the other hand, is, and I’m sure his wife would be grateful to know that.”

“He isn’t gay,” said Sherlock. 

“Aw, did he turn you down?” said Riley with mock concern. She raised her phone to show them a picture of a well-groomed, handsome young man. “You have to admit this young man is just the kind your sort goes after. The emails are interesting enough, but when you see who he sent them to, things take on a new dimension.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Sherlock. John was observing Sherlock for a signal and sprang into action when he saw it. He slipped between Riley and the door. “Your phone, please.”

He grabbed at Riley’s phone, but she backed away towards the door and unbuttoned her jacket, revealing an unnecessary amount of cleavage and a Beretta in her inside pocket.

“I know how to use it too.” Riley smiled as Sherlock took a step back. “You don’t think I’m stupid enough to only have a copy of my evidence on my phone?”

“Of course not. You have it in some secure cloud storage. Maybe even somewhere as common as DropBox, Google Drive or Box.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I was merely curious as to which one might keep your data safe enough. After all, your victims won’t pay if they think anyone else has the information too.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I keep the evidence well protected. Well, I must be going,” said Riley with a laugh. “I’d say it was nice meeting you both again, but I’m sure the pleasure was all mine.” She looked John over. “It’s sad, really, to see one of our brave heroes reduced to this. You must really love this creep to let him crawl back after what he did to you.”

She turned her back on John; his hand closed on the back of the chair beside him and he was sorely tempted to whack her over the head with it. But Sherlock caught his eye and shook his head, a smile on his lips.

“Well, that went well,” said John, flopping into his chair when Riley had left.

Sherlock just grunted and dropped into his own chair by the fire. John knew that look; Sherlock’s mind was busy working something out. Sensing that he wouldn’t get any further conversation from his flatmate that evening, John went to finish off his cup of tea and headed up the stairs towards his own room. He had a locum placement in the morning and might as well try to get some sleep, even though he knew he would probably spend an hour or two plotting imaginary revenge against Riley for what she had done and what she had said about Sherlock.

He was halfway up the stairs when Sherlock suddenly burst into the corridor and strode into his room. He crashed about in there for a few minutes. Curious enough not to care how curious he looked, John stayed on the stairs, sipping his tea and waiting for Sherlock to reappear.

It was worth the wait. Sherlock emerged wearing a pair of tight jeans, a loose T-shirt and a set of imitation designer trainers. He pulled on a thick waterproof jacket and a woolly beanie hat. He looked up at John when he noticed him watching.

“You’re working tomorrow,” he said, frowning as if trying to remember. 

“Yeah, Croydon,” said John, though he was surprised Sherlock had remembered.

“Right.” Sherlock adjusted the beanie so it was low on his forehead, his curly hair entirely concealed. He looked very ordinary like that. Very young too. John’s insides twisted as Sherlock looked up at him again. “I’ll see you when you get back tomorrow, then.”

He went down the stairs and John went up to bed, relieved that he wouldn’t be up all night and compromising his good standing with the placement agency, but equally disappointed that Sherlock hadn’t insisted that he come with him.

In some ways, Sherlock had returned from the grave a different man. Well, not entirely different; he was still insensitive to John’s feelings about using the kitchen as a lab and experimenting on John’s possessions, and complained endlessly about the petty, low-profile cases he’d been taking—mostly at Mycroft’s instigation—since his return. But the fact that he was taking them at all was proof that something had changed.

John sometimes wondered if he should ask Sherlock about his ‘Hiatus’ as one newspaper sarcastically called it. But Sherlock was back now and John didn’t want to disturb their new life. John had been pissed off and had shouted at him for an hour when he came back, but once that was out of his system, he had clapped his friend on the back and made him a cup of tea, and everything was fine again. Back to normal. Mostly. 

There was no sign of Sherlock in their common rooms when John got up early the next morning, though Sherlock’s bedroom door was closed. With a sigh, John ate his breakfast and went to catch the Northern Line for his long commute out to Croydon where a dreary day as a locum GP awaited him. It was a bit of a come down compared to his life with Sherlock when the latter had an exciting case. Not that there had been any of those recently.

However, John could tell Sherlock was on a new case when he came home that evening, and an interesting one at that. Sherlock was back in his own clothes and humming contentedly as he switched between his laptop and his iPad, swiping through websites and typing at lightning speed. The contrast with his subdued reaction to the cases he had taken recently was striking. He didn’t acknowledge John’s presence at all when he came in and said hello loudly. John went upstairs to his room to change out of his suit, feeling as though the world was back to normal at last.

“So,” said John as he made himself a cup of tea a bit later. “What have you been up to? You obviously have a new case. Anything interesting?”

Sherlock looked up. “You’re working in Croydon.”

“Only during the day. They let me come home at night,” said John. “I even get a lunch break. So, what’s the case?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I’m tackling our friend Ms Riley. I haven’t had much success tapping into her online accounts remotely, but I’ve managed to gain access to her property by posing as a plumber and I’m hoping to learn enough about her habits and equipment to get my hands on her computer. Then I’ll be able to crack her passwords and destroy any evidence she might be intending to use against any other would-be victims.” 

He paused, frowned, and then added, “And how was your day? Any interesting patients?”

John had only had a couple of jobs since Sherlock’s return—to be perfectly honest, the pay was good enough now he had a decent CV that he didn’t need much more—and Sherlock had asked him the same questions each time. John had assumed the solicitude was born of boredom, but apparently, it was something Sherlock felt he should ask even when there was something more interesting going on.

“Not really,” he said dismissively. “The usual coughs and colds, and old people waiting two hours to see a doctor just for a bit of company.”

“Yes, lots of people get sick in the winter time,” said Sherlock gravely. He seemed to be making an effort to concentrate on the conversation, even though his eyes kept drifting to the computer screen beside him. “It’s been very cold.”

John stared at him a moment, uncertain whether to continue this awkward conversation or burst out laughing. “Are you practicing your small talk on me?”

“I’m just asking about your day,” said Sherlock, his defensive tone suggesting that he had indeed been conducting the conversation deliberately. “I want to know how your day went. It’s what friends do.”

There was something awkward about Sherlock’s body language that made John think he was probably better off putting up with the small talk in future. It still made him wonder what had happened during the Hiatus, and he was about to try a direct question to find out more about that when he remembered what Sherlock had just said.

“Wait a minute. You’re posing as a plumber to gain access to Riley’s property. How on earth is that supposed to work? Riley knows what you look like, Sherlock.”

“I’m really quite good at disguises, you know. Even you didn’t... Anyway,” he said, interrupting himself, “her employees are all recent immigrants who don’t know me at all.”

John let the reminder slide. Their actual reunion hadn’t exactly been a high point in John’s life; not only had he initially failed to recognise Sherlock after obsessing over him for months, but he had then passed out, and all but punched Sherlock when he came to, before finally giving him a not quite manly hug. It was quite possible that he might have actually snogged Sherlock if Mrs Hudson hadn’t come in and started the whole shouting bit all over again.

“And her staff are daft enough to buy that you’re a plumber?”

“I’m a very good plumber,” said Sherlock with pride. “Shezza Escott is Peckham’s finest. Besides, since I’m the one who sabotaged their boiler, I’m best placed to repair it as well.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. The only person I’ve met so far is Riley’s maid, and she’s a student from Senegal—I could tell by her accent and the braiding of her hair—who has never heard of Sherlock Holmes and doesn’t have a very high opinion of her employer. I know you’re busy with your job this week, and this is the boring bit. I’ll let you know as soon as things get exciting.”

Much to John’s disappointment, it took a few days for things to get exciting. And when they did, it wasn’t exactly what he had had in mind. He had just come home from work the following Wednesday and was making himself a cup of tea in the kitchen, when Sherlock came bouncing in wearing an untucked striped shirt and casual trousers quite unlike anything John had seen him wear before.

“John, does this look suitable for a date?”

“A date?” repeated John a little stupidly, standing in the middle of their kitchen with a pint of milk in his hand. 

“Yes, I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept,” said Sherlock impatiently. “I’m going on a date with a young lady tonight and I want to know if this looks like the kind of thing I should be wearing. We’ve been out to lunch a couple of times, but I thought I should make an effort for dinner.”

“Right. Er, congratulations. I mean on the date,” said John. “You look ... fine.”

Given that he had kept his feelings secret ever since Sherlock’s return, John didn’t think this precise moment would be a good time to say that he not only thought Sherlock looked “fine”, but also bloody sexy. Still, this was unexpected; one of the main reasons John hadn’t made a pass at Sherlock was that he believed he was asexual and wanted to respect that. Obviously, if Sherlock was an ordinary bloke who went out with girls, that put a different spin on things, albeit one that still precluded romantic advances of a homosexual nature. John returned to his tea making in an effort to look like less of a prat.

“Also, I’d like to know if you can come along.”

“You want me to come along,” John repeated. “You’re going on a date with a ‘young lady’ and you want me to come along. You weren’t kidding when you said this wasn’t your area.”

“No,” admitted Sherlock. “But Riley’s maid asked me out and I thought I might as well go along with it. Agathe has been a very useful source of information.”

John was ashamed to find himself breathing an actual sigh of relief. “Oh, it’s for the case,” he said, before his brain caught up with the situation and he regarded Sherlock with horror. “Wait, no, you can’t do that, Sherlock. You can’t just go out with a girl because she is involved in a case. It’s unethical!”

Sherlock looked puzzled. “People in detective movies do it all the time. I don’t see the harm. Anyway, it isn’t as if she’s in love with me. In fact, I believe she has a fiancé in France.”

“Oh, so she’s cheating on someone with you. That makes it all right, then,” said John sarcastically. “That and the fact that she probably thinks you’re a twenty-something plumber from Peckham as opposed to a posh private detective who is pushing forty.”

“I’m not pushing forty,” said Sherlock with a pout.

“You’re thirty-eight. That makes you pushing forty and if she’s a student as you said, you’re probably a good fifteen to twenty years older than her. You should call the girl and cancel.”

Sherlock sighed. “I can’t. I’m hoping she will let me into Riley’s house tonight so I can put an eavesdropping device into the living-room. Fixing the boiler is all very well, but it is in a different part of the mansion so it has been difficult to collect the kind of data I need. Anyway, that’s why I need your help. I’ve borrowed a surveillance van from one of Mycroft’s minions—it’s done up as a plumber’s van, whence my disguise—and I need you to sit in it and keep a lookout for Riley in case she comes home early. You won’t have to sit around in it all evening. I’ll text you when we’re on our way back to Riley’s place.”

John thought it sounded like a stupid plan. Given that Sherlock already had access to the property, he didn’t need to go on a date, and given that he was going on a date, he didn’t need to have John there and anyway, why did Sherlock need this girl when he could have John? He left that last bit out of his protests, and it made no difference anyway. Two hours later, he was sitting in the back of a van full of surveillance equipment and a little bit of token plumbing paraphernalia, keeping an eye out for Riley’s return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes on a date, and he and John do a bit of breaking and entering and holding hands in the dark.

John ate his bacon sandwich and flicked through the feeds from the external cameras. Sherlock had texted him from the restaurant as planned and John had obediently taken the Tube to Hampstead Heath to take his place in the surveillance van. He bit angrily into his sandwich and reflected that it wasn’t fair that Sherlock of all people was on a date. It occurred to him that he had been on many dates while he lived with Sherlock Before, but he doubted Sherlock had been this upset about them. Right. Because Sherlock wasn’t in love with John. John rubbed his face and flicked through the surveillance feeds to take his mind off the situation.

To his surprise, there was a new feed. Sherlock had apparently seized an opportunity and was setting up the bug he’d prepared, though he possibly didn’t realise that the van was already scanning for its signal and John would be able to see it immediately.

It initially gave John an excellent view of Sherlock’s nostril hair and an earful of static, but when Sherlock moved away, John was able to admire almost the entirety of Riley’s gaudily-decorated living room. Sherlock was alone for a few seconds, his keen gaze taking in the entire room, no doubt reading everything there was to know about Riley’s life from her possessions. Sherlock stopped looking around when he was joined by his date.

John had to admit that, as dates went, Sherlock had made a nice choice. Agathe the maid was tall and handsome, with very dark skin and intricately braided hair. She was carrying two drinks that looked as if they might be wine, and gave Sherlock a smile which suggested that he was about to get lucky.

“Santé,” she said, raising her glass.

Sherlock repeated the word and for one horrible moment, John thought they were going to speak French to each other. Fortunately, Sherlock seemed to remember that despite French being taught in every secondary school in the country, ordinary British people never learned to speak a word of it. He switched to English again.

“Nice place, innit?” he remarked, his affected "Chav" accent sounding strange to John’s ears.

“Yes, Miss Riley is very rich. She sells people’s secrets in the newspaper.”

“Yeah, I know, read her stuff in The Sun,” said Sherlock with a smile. He sipped his wine. “Nice wine. Châ-” He interrupted himself before identifying the wine. John scoffed at the idea of Sherlock being good at disguises; it would be a miracle if he could suppress his Smart Alec tendencies for more than an hour at a time. “Don’t like her much, do you?”

Agathe pursed her dark lips. “No, she is a bad woman. The other day, a woman came and was crying and Miss Riley told her bodyguard to put the woman outside. She always say bad things about me also, about my accent and how do I look, and how do people live in my country.” She gave a Gallic shrug; something the French had apparently passed on to their former colonies. “But I go to Paris this weekend. I have a holiday, then I finish the term at school and I go back to Senegal with good English.”

“You’re visiting your fiancé this weekend?” asked Sherlock with interest; John could see the calculating look on his face. “How will Ms Riley survive without you?”

Agathe’s eyes widened. “How you know about Claude?”

“Overheard your conversation with him the other day,” said Sherlock, putting on a sheepish smile. John thought he looked adorable. “It’s all right, I don’t mind if you don’t.”

“Good,” said Agathe with a laugh. “We agree he can play with French girls if I can play with English boys.”

“I’m not sure you got the best of that particular deal.” Sherlock gave her a cheeky smile. “Though I s’pose a plumber from Peckham’s a bit exotic if you’re from Dakar, innit?”

Agathe took Sherlock’s glass and put it on the mantelpiece beside them. “You are not a plumber, Shezza Escott.” 

She moved closer and Sherlock shrank back slightly, though he said nothing when she put her hand on his chest. He tilted his head with curiosity; John realised with a painful jolt that it was the same appraising look Sherlock had given Irene Adler when they first met.

“You are, how you call it, ‘casing the joint’?” said Agathe carefully. “It is meaning you look for opportunity to burglar the house?”

“‘It means you are looking for an opportunity to burgle the house’,” corrected Sherlock, because apparently even when he was rumbled and in a potentially dangerous situation, he couldn’t suppress his inner supply teacher instincts. He had dropped the accent. “You think I am a thief?”

“Maybe,” said Agathe nonchalantly. “I am not thinking it is good to burglar people’s things, you know. But she is very rich and not a good person, so I do not mind.”

Sherlock blinked, apparently mesmerised by her black eyes on him. “I’m a private detective,” he said. “I need information stored on Riley’s laptop.”

“Oh, a _détective_ like Hercule Poirot,” said Agathe with a laugh. John could tell from the crease at the top of Sherlock’s nose that he didn’t remember who Hercule Poirot was.

“But more handsome,” she added. “Her laptop, Riley, she is always leaving it in the office when she is asleep. She uses a tablet in bed. The conservatory door is not always locked because she thinks the back door is safe. But maybe the key, it is left in the back door sometimes. I will text you the code for the alarm so you can turn it off if she has put it on. You can come this weekend when I am not here.”

“Thank you. How do you know I’m not lying? I might just be a thief. I could sneak in tonight and steal all your possessions too; your mobile phone, all the jewellery your mother gave you.” He leaned forward and murmured, “I could ravish you in your sleep.”

Agathe drew white teeth over her lower lip. “I know you are not a bad man, private détective.”

Sherlock observed her with curiosity. “You’ve been down the pub with me twice and you know I am not a bad man?”

“You are a lonely man and you are very sad.” She rubbed his chest gently and leaned closer. She was tall enough that her lips were almost level with his. “But you have a good heart.”

“I’m a lot older than I look,” blurted out Sherlock. 

Her lips were almost touching his now. “You are looking thirty-five years old, maybe? I think you are looking good.”

John’s heart missed a beat as Agathe leaned forward and kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. He had never seen anyone kiss Sherlock before, and even his own imagination had left him unprepared for how arousing he found it. Arousing and of course, hideously painful.

“Opinion is quite divided on that subject,” said Sherlock, apparently unable to stop himself even though he made no effort to stop her kissing him again. “In fact—”

She cupped his head and pressed her lips to his more firmly. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and to John’s horror, he opened his mouth and started to kiss her back.

John grabbed his phone and dialled Sherlock’s number. On screen, Sherlock jumped away from Agathe. His lips were wet.

“Sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Oh, bloody hell. Sorry, I have to go. Riley is on her way back.”

“Oh, you can come in my room, she will not see you.”

“No, um, best not,” said Sherlock, though John was sure he was tempted. “Thank you, but my ... colleague will be expecting me.”

The obvious response to that one would have been to suggest that Sherlock call John and tell him not to wait, but Agathe didn’t insist. She picked up their glasses and gave Sherlock another quick kiss before hurrying out of the room. Left alone, Sherlock breathed in deeply and ... was he actually adjusting himself?

John had returned to the front passenger seat when Sherlock reached the van a few minutes later. Sherlock was back to his usual self and swung into the driver’s seat, an enthusiastic grin on his lips as he started the engine and drove off.

“John, do we still have those ninja costumes we wore a few years ago?”

“Possibly. I don’t think Mrs Hudson threw any of your clothes away while you were gone.”

“Excellent. Agathe will be away this weekend and she’s given me some pointers on how to get into the house to get Riley’s laptop. Where is Riley, anyway?”

“She isn’t back yet,” admitted John.

“Then why did you call me?” asked Sherlock, sounding curious rather than angry.

“Why, did I interrupt anything important?” snapped John.

“Well—” started Sherlock before he glanced at John and understanding lit up his face. “You were watching. Of course. The eavesdropping device is still connected to the equipment in this van.”

“Yeah.”

“Right. I obviously didn’t expect you to see that.”

Now that the subject was out in the open, John couldn’t help showing some of his anger. “Since when do you have sex? I never saw you with anyone while we lived together!”

“She kissed me. I wasn’t having sex with her,” mumbled Sherlock. “And anyway, you more than made up for me with all those girlfriends you had. You definitely had sex with them. That was a little difficult to ignore!”

“You were listening?”

“I have very sensitive ears,” said Sherlock petulantly. “And you’re a very good lover judging by the amount of noise they were making.”

“Knowing my luck, they were probably faking it,” said John, though he was secretly pleased.

“Oh, no, they weren’t,” said Sherlock. “That’s why they came back for more even after they’d met me.”

He grinned and John couldn’t help but smile back. Sherlock turned his attention to the road and drove the van back to the garage where they kept it hidden.

They walked back to the flat in silence; Sherlock’s mind already seemed to be on the planned break-in that weekend. He pounced on his laptop as soon as they came home, leaving John to check his own emails and read his book in silence. 

“You’re surprised that I enjoyed kissing Agathe,” said Sherlock suddenly.

John put down the e-reader and stared at Sherlock a moment. “Well, um, yes, I suppose I am a bit.”

“You thought I was asexual.” Sherlock’s eyes were on his laptop and it was hard to tell how he felt about the conversation from his light tone. “I’m not.”

“Right.” John cleared his throat. “Okay. And I suppose Mycroft is wrong about, er, sex being alarming for you.”

“Yes.” Sherlock looked up at John over the laptop’s screen and John’s heart missed a beat. “It is always a mistake to theorise without full possession of all—Ah, sorry.”

He looked down at the text message that had just made his phone beep. He smiled and leaned back in his seat.

“John, are you up for a little breaking and entering this weekend?” asked Sherlock as his long thumbs slid across the screen, entering a reply. “According to Agathe, we’ll have to break in while Riley is in the house,” he added. He gave John a knowing smile. “Very dangerous.”

“My favourite thing.”

They didn’t discuss Sherlock’s date any further, which left John feeling both relieved and frustrated. Sherlock plunged into the preparations for the break-in with his usual gusto while John finished off an otherwise humdrum week with a late night on Friday. Sherlock didn’t mention Agathe again, so neither did John.

It wasn’t until John was sitting in the back of the van again, feeling faintly ridiculous with a full ninja costume under his plumber’s overalls, that he plucked up the courage to ask whether Sherlock would to see Agathe again after the current adventure.

“I doubt it,” replied Sherlock, his eyes focussed on a video feed of Riley’s bedroom window. The light had been off for a while but they needed to be sure she was asleep. “Agathe will spend this weekend rekindling her romantic relationship with her fiancé Claude, and it is doubtful whether she will even bother to return to England to finish her course. The whole endeavour was largely designed to prove her independence as she does not intend to be a traditional wife.”

“Right, so playing with English boys was just asserting her independence.”

“Yes, it is quite possible that she didn’t intend to sleep with me at all.” Sherlock’s eyes were still on the screen, but John was observing him closely enough to notice him purse his lips. Not being Sherlock, John wasn’t sure what it meant. “It seems unlikely given ... but possible. I’ve never understood women.”

That was quite possibly the most blokey thing Sherlock had ever said. “I can’t say I do either,” said John with a laugh. “Harry says it isn’t because women are complicated, just that men are stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” said Sherlock. “I’m just not interested. I don’t care what goes on in women’s heads.” He paused and then added, “I don’t like women. Not that I don’t find some of them attractive or intelligent or useful. I don’t dislike women. But when it comes to—“ He looked pained but persevered. “I have come to realise that my emotional needs are not fulfilled by the company of women.”

“Right.” John hesitated, but then decided to state matters clearly, just to make sure he was following this conversation. “You prefer men?”

“Yes.” 

John’s heart skipped a beat. If Sherlock preferred men, then that meant there was a chance... He stared at Sherlock’s profile. Why was Sherlock sharing this now? Was it just because his kiss with Agathe had confirmed his sexuality; or was he trying to tell John something? Aside from the fact that he was gay, that is.

“You didn’t know that?” asked Sherlock with a frown.

“What, that you—you, um, no, I didn’t, no.”

"Of course not. You thought I was asexual."

"Yes." John imagined what would happen if he reached out and touched Sherlock’s chiselled cheek. Would Sherlock recoil in horror or would he lean into the touch? After all, Sherlock being gay didn't mean he was attracted to John.

“Her light has been off for an hour now,” said Sherlock. “We should go.”

“Wha— oh, yes. Right.”

They exited the van into the cold night air and walked around to the garages in an adjacent road, where they quickly removed their coats and overalls to reveal their black outfits. Sherlock, of course, looked good in the tight-fitting ninja costume, only his small almond-shaped eyes and wide eyebrows showing in the slit in the black material. John on the other hand, still felt ridiculous.

However, this was no time for sartorial pride. Sherlock hoisted himself easily up onto the concrete roof of the garage and dropped down into the private garden behind it. John sighed, picked up the tool bag Sherlock had instructed him to bring and, with some difficulty, climbed up after him. By the time Sherlock had vaulted over five more six-foot fences as they made their way through the gardens on Riley's street, John's romantic feelings were all but forgotten, and he wanted to strangle Sherlock rather than snog him. 

Riley’s home was a large semi-detached house in a row of houses that had once all been identical, but now sported a variety of mismatched extensions on the back, side and roof. Hers also boasted a full width plastic-framed conservatory on the back of the rear extension. As in most urban areas, even in the depth of night, the garden wasn’t truly dark and Sherlock and John had to furtively dart from the back shed to the water feature to the side of the conservatory in the hopes of not being seen by any of the neighbours. Given the number of burglaries, rapes and murders that happened in densely populated areas of London without anyone seeing a thing, John presumed they were pretty safe, but it was best to be prudent; he quickly identified all the windows that overlooked the garden to check that no one was looking out. Adrenaline was pumping in his veins.

After they had lurked in the shadows for a couple of minutes, Sherlock picked up the toolbag and started work on the double-glazed window on the side of the conservatory facing the side fence. Though he was still keeping a lookout, John couldn’t help admiring Sherlock as he carefully cut though the plastic beading around the outer window pane until the glass was loose. He then used a fine carbon blade to break the glass neatly so he could shimmy the pieces out. John couldn’t help wondering where Sherlock had learned this particular skill. 

Sherlock removed the inner pane much the same way, then reached into the conservatory through the now unglazed opening and moved some of the decorative items on the windowsill inside. John expected Sherlock to climb in through the window, but instead, he walked around to the conservatory door, pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.

“Take your shoes off, John,” he hissed as he carefully stepped into the conservatory sideways. He then walked backwards towards the window he had removed and forward again, keeping his steps the same forward and back to leave only one set of muddy footprints apparently leading from the window.

“A child could see through that, but it should fool the police,” he commented quietly. “John, your shoes.”

Muttering under his breath about how he always got the short end of the stick, John removed his shoes and followed Sherlock into the conservatory. Sherlock locked the conservatory door again, this time leaving the keys inside, and repeated the same trick on the back door, painstakingly removing the double-glazing only to then unlock the door with the key that was already on the other side of the lock.

The extended kitchen was plunged in darkness. John could barely make out the contours of the modern minimalist table and counters. Before he could find his bearings, Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the back of the room.

The house smelled of cigarettes; even John could work out that Riley must be a smoker. He wondered what would happen if she came downstairs and found two men in black creeping around in the dark, holding hands. He tried to chase the _Men in Black_ theme tune from his mind as Sherlock, who apparently included the ability to see in the dark among his many talents, continued to lead him through the house.

Sherlock was taking a very roundabout route and it took John a moment to realise that he was collecting eavesdropping devices as he went along. They finally passed through what felt like the fifteenth doorway—John nearly tripped over the threshold—and into the hallway. John could just make out the fake stained glass window above the front door and the staircase opposite it. The house was double-fronted, a long side extension filling up half of what had probably once been a very wide gap between this house and the one next door, and there were doors on either side of the entrance hall. Sherlock led John to the left, into the old part of the house. This room appeared to be used as a study and was illuminated by the flickering light of an Internet router and the standby lights on various household appliances like the large TV mounted on the wall and the Sky box beneath it. After the near complete darkness of the kitchen and hallway, John found that he could make out the details of this room quite clearly. Riley’s laptop was on a desk in front of the bow window, whose long curtains were drawn.

Sherlock let go of John’s hand—although they were both wearing gloves, John had quite enjoyed that and felt a little disappointed—and went over to look at the laptop. He pulled down his mask and John followed suit, much relieved not to have the material covering his face anymore.

John stayed in the doorway, intending to keep lookout again, though he noticed that there was another door into the room, opposite the window, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if Riley came anyway. It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t recognise them both the minute she saw them.

Looking around the hallway, John caught sight of a glint of metal on the front door and realised it was the door chain reflecting some faint light from the study. It took him a moment to realise that it was dangling down rather than fastened to the door frame as an added obstacle to any intruders stupid enough to come through the front door. On a hunch, John went over and tried the catch on the front door and found it completely unlocked.

“Sherlock,” he hissed.

John switched on his phone and used it to light up the door; there was a bolt, which was also unfastened. He fully expected Sherlock to ignore him as he was probably already engrossed the laptop, so it came as a bit of a shock when Sherlock whispered in his ear, having apparently sneaked up on John in the darkness. 

“I don’t like this, John,” he murmured. “I’ll try to be quick.”

It was probably John’s imagination, but Sherlock’s lips seemed to linger a moment longer than necessary by John’s ear. Combined with the adrenaline already pumping through his veins, the thought sent a rush of desire through John and he had to call on all his military training to focus on the dangerous situation they were in. Sherlock was already a man of dubious repute after hoodwinking the British public into believing he was dead. Any judge or jury would throw the book at him if he was caught breaking and entering.

When they returned to the study, Sherlock connected a USB key to the laptop and sat at the desk to type, his pale features ghostly in the screen light. John thought he looked beautiful, his lightning mind at work solving a problem, oblivious to his surroundings.

John had to interrupt his admiration though when he heard the tone of a mobile phone text notification, followed by the creak of a floorboard upstairs. He froze, working out the direction of the footsteps. Maybe Riley was simply going to the loo? On the other hand, if she was texting, she must be fully awake, and besides, it was unlikely that someone with so many enemies would go to bed without at least locking her front door.

The footsteps were heading towards the back of the house, where the bathroom probably lay, positioned above the kitchen. But that was also where the staircase started on the upper floor. Sherlock had also heard the noise and was disconnecting the pen drive. He nodded towards the floor to ceiling curtains hanging across the bow window and they both slipped behind them just as Riley came down the stairs.

Fortunately, she didn’t immediately come into the study. Sherlock’s gloved hand slipped into John’s and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Though he appreciated the gesture, John wasn’t sure that Sherlock had noticed what he could see in the tiny gap between the curtains; the laptop’s screen was still on. John gave Sherlock’s hand a quick yank to attract his attention.

“Laptop,” he whispered as quietly as he could.

Sherlock leaned over to look through the gap and John could just make out his long nose and surprised expression in the bluish light from the screen.

“She might not come in,” hissed Sherlock, leaning close to John’s ear again.

John wanted to retort that they couldn’t be certain about that. But when he turned to talk to Sherlock, he found that his friend was still leaning down close to him and they bumped noses. Then they weren’t just face to face in the dim light but actually mouth to mouth.

The tension John had felt since they broke into Riley’s house seemed to fuel his passion and he kissed Sherlock, his heart beating wildly. The extraordinary thing was that Sherlock, whom he had believed was asexual until only a few days earlier, was kissing him back. They were both completely lost in the kiss when the light in the room came on and they sprang apart. The expression on Sherlock’s face was unguarded, and much the same mixture of surprise and pink-lipped arousal that John had seen on his face when Agathe kissed him earlier in the week. Sherlock was clearly not used to being kissed. Aware of the danger they were now in, John pulled up his mask and Sherlock did the same, though he slipped his hand into John’s again.

Fortunately, Riley was engrossed in her phone and didn’t notice the laptop screen or the curtains, which were moving slightly following Sherlock and John’s moment of passion. It occurred to John that if Riley decided to open the curtains, she would find two Men in Black who were not only holding hands but visibly aroused too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riley meets her comeuppance and John and Sherlock decide they should have sex.

The laptop screen switched itself off a second later, and just in time; after fitting her tablet into its expensive looking docking station, Riley settled into the swivel chair behind the desk and continued to tap on her phone. John watched her apprehensively; if she turned on the laptop, she would see the result of Sherlock’s efforts to hack into her accounts. If that happened, John decided, he would spring out from behind the curtain, throw his ninja jacket over her head and wrestle her to the ground in order to give Sherlock a chance to escape.

Luckily, just as she put her phone down and appeared about to pull the laptop closer, the phone beeped again. Riley read the message and laughed.

“Got you, you bastard,” she said triumphantly.

She got up and left the room. John heard the front door open and Riley returned with her visitor, a biker in black leathers, still wearing a helmet.

“Come on in. I hope it’s good,” said Riley sharply. “I’m prepared to pay a good sum if the letters really do show he fiddled his taxes. That arsehole has been on my case far too long and it’s time I showed him the true meaning of a free press. These Cabinet ministers need to understand where the real power— Oh, it’s you.”

The biker had removed the helmet to reveal the face of a handsome woman with dark hair. John thought she looked familiar, though he couldn’t place her.

“You killed him,” said the woman shakily. She was close to tears. “You published those lies and you killed him.”

Riley shrugged. “Oh, your husband? He was clearly unstable. And you can’t blame me. Our paper takes child abuse allegations very seriously.”

“It wasn’t him! The witness told you it was a case of mistaken identity and you refused to publish a retraction just because my husband wouldn’t pay you when you tried to blackmail him.”

“He was obviously a weak man,” said Riley with a sneer, turning her back on the woman dismissively and picking up her phone again. “He didn’t have to kill himself. Now bugger off before I call my bodyguard.”

“The damage was done,” said the woman. “The BBC wouldn’t reinstate him after that, not in the wake of all the cover-up allegations over Jimmy Savile. That job at Ceebeebies was his life! He loved those children and he never touched a single one of them inappropriately. You destroyed a good man out of spite! But you’ll get what’s coming to you now.”

John had to suppress a gasp as the woman pulled a gun out of her pocket. Riley still had her back to the woman and didn’t notice for a moment. When she did, she laughed.

“Oh leave it out. You’re not going to use that,” said Riley, and to her credit, she really didn’t sound frightened.

“He was the love of my life and you killed him!” said the woman. 

She let out a sob and pulled the trigger. John felt Sherlock start beside him, his hand squeezing John’s fingers more tightly. Riley stared at the woman, her mouth a perfect O of surprise as a pool of red stained her white blouse. Panicking, and possibly deciding it would be worse if Riley survived, the woman fired several more shots, then seeming to come to her senses, she dropped her gun, seized her helmet and ran away.

“Bloody hell,” muttered John through his mask.

He ran out from behind the curtain and crouched by Riley’s body. Her corpse was riddled with bullets, her pale face blood-stained from wounds in her cheek and forehead, eyes staring straight up. He looked up at Sherlock, who was putting her laptop in his bag, and shook his head.

“Let’s go,” said Sherlock.

They left the way they had come, climbing through the broken windows rather than waste time unlocking the doors. The shots had woken the entire neighbourhood; one of Riley’s neighbours pursued them when they tried to run through his garden to reach the street. Sherlock vaulted effortlessly over the six-foot fence but John took longer and the man almost grabbed his foot. Luckily, he got no purchase on John’s sock, and John was able to escape, thanking his lucky stars that most Londoners still didn’t possess guns.

They ran for several minutes, John following Sherlock as they took a roundabout route through sleepy streets. Eventually, Sherlock led John back to the garages and handed him his overcoat. John put his shoes back on and removed his mask, glaring at Sherlock who was already bare-faced and wearing his usual coat and scarf. Sherlock smirked at him but his expression turned more serious as if he had just remembered that they had watched a woman gunned down in front of them.

“We need to get home,” said Sherlock shortly, striding off down the alleyway.

John followed, feeling a bit put out. They drove back to Baker Street in silence and as soon as they entered, Sherlock pulled out the laptop and set himself up to study it in the living room. John stood and watched him for a while, remembering their passionate kiss and wondering if he had imagined it.

Since Sherlock was busy, John decided to leave him to it. Maybe the kiss didn’t mean anything after all. Despite that thought, though, John was experienced enough to know that, except possibly when drunk, kisses always meant something. But maybe this kiss just meant that Sherlock’s libido had been roused by his relationship with Agathe and since he had told John he preferred men, he had simply acted on his newfound sexual interest by kissing John. Maybe his silence now was the result of him wanting to preserve his friendship with John. And, obviously, his obsessive need to complete their original mission by destroying all the secrets Riley had stashed away somewhere online.

Still, John went to bed feeling dejected. He wanted Sherlock to want him; they didn’t have to have sex, though obviously if Sherlock was gay, they could, but John wanted very much to be able to express his love for Sherlock physically, by hugging him or ruffling his hair or holding his hand... He drifted off into a fitful sleep, berating himself for being so obsessed with his personal matters when Riley had been murdered in front of them.

He was woken up by the sound of his bedroom door opening. Startled, he sat up in bed and tried to remember where he had left his gun. But looking towards the door in the semi-darkness, he realised it was just Sherlock.

“Sherlock, is everything all right?” he asked, alarmed.

“Yes. I found Riley’s data online and deleted it all. I’ve disposed of her laptop; no one will be able to trace anything back to us. Her would-be victims are all safe.”

“Great,” said John. He rubbed his eyes wearily. It had been an emotionally draining evening and his restless, interrupted sleep had not been enough to let him recover.

“John, can I get into bed with you?”

Now that was a request he hadn’t expected. John mumbled an agreement and moved over. Sherlock shed his dressing gown and climbed in.

They lay side by side in the dim city light filtering through the curtain. After a moment, John realised that Sherlock had moved his hand closer, and he took it in his own, squeezing the fingers gently much as Sherlock had done to him at Riley’s house.

“This is disrespectful,” said Sherlock gravely. “Someone died tonight.”

“Not a very nice someone,” pointed out John.

“True. She had pictures of women photographed naked on holiday in private villas, a medical report on a politician’s daughter who has leukaemia, and hours of conversations that must have been recorded illegally by tapping people’s phones or bugging their houses. She even had a file on you that includes some malicious slander about us, and a police report saying you were at the scene the night the cabbie died. I think she was preparing material in case she wanted to blackmail us too.” Sherlock turned his head towards John. “So no, she was not a very nice person.”

“Right.”

Sherlock’s hand in his was warm and comforting, and John was starting to doze off.

“John, you’re in love with me,” said Sherlock, and John was suddenly wide awake.

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I am.”

“Do you want us to be a couple?”

“Well...” John cleared his throat. Given a choice, now wasn’t when he would have chosen to have this conversation. “I, yes, I mean everyone thinks we are anyway. But, well, we don’t have to have sex if you don’t want to.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to?” asked Sherlock, his tone matter of fact. “I fancy you. Always did.”

“Ah, okay, then, we’ll have sex.”

“You’re not gay.”

“No, but I…” John tried to marshal his thoughts. “I missed you when you were gone. And since you came back, I’ve realised I don’t want anyone else. I know it sounds very corny, but anyway, that’s the way it is. And I do want to have sex with you too.”

“Good. We don’t have to start right away, but we should have sex. I think we’ll both enjoy it. You can be on top too. Though we might swap sometimes if you don’t mind.”

“Right.” John cleared his throat again. “So that’s sorted, then.”

“Yes.” 

John could hear the smile in Sherlock’s voice and the bed shifted as Sherlock moved over to kiss his cheek. John turned his head and kissed blindly into the dark, catching the tip of Sherlock’s nose before latching onto his mouth for a soft, quick kiss. Sherlock sighed contentedly and shuffled further under the duvet to settle his head on John’s shoulder, where he promptly fell asleep.

Chuckling softly, John stroked his new—lover’s?—curly hair and reflected that he was a very, very lucky man to even know Sherlock, let alone to have him return his affections. Not that he would tell Sherlock that; his head was quite big enough as it was. His mind now completely free of its earlier concerns, John closed his eyes and drifted off, lulled by Sherlock’s soft snores.

They were woken up far too early the next morning by Sherlock’s phone, which whistled at them twice before Sherlock leaned over to make it stop. By then, dull winter daylight was filtering through the curtains and John could clearly see Sherlock, bleary-eyed and unshaven, leaning up on one arm and checking his phone.

“Lestrade is on his way here. Murder case. Probably Riley,” said Sherlock, dropping his phone onto the bedside table and snuggling back under the covers again until all that was visible was his tousled hair. “You’d better go down and talk to him when he gets here. We won’t have an alibi if he works out we were out last night. You should get up now.”

John was torn between a desire to thump Sherlock and the impulse to tangle his fingers into the mop of unruly hair. He’d never seen Sherlock with bed hair before and he thought it was rather sweet. However, given that Sherlock was kicking him out of bed, John refrained from any gesture of affection and settled for glaring at the top of Sherlock’s head instead.

“Why do I—?”

“Actually, stay where you are,” said Sherlock, reappearing from underneath the sheets. “This is perfect. We have time for sex!”

“We do?” asked John.

“It won’t take long.”

“What do you mean, it won’t take—” started John, though he forgot was he had been about to say when Sherlock’s hand moved under the covers. “Oh.”

“I see we are both in normal sexual health. I’ve always found my libido was stronger first thing in the morning.”

“Yeah— now, just shut up.”

The doorbell rang a few minutes later; John heard Mrs Hudson call something up the stairs and he guessed Greg had arrived. Sherlock had disappeared under the sheets again and was snoring softly. With a sigh, John roused himself from the light doze he had been in, got dressed and ran down the stairs.

“It’s all right, Mrs Hudson, I’m here!” he called over the banisters as he went down to the main level of the flat. “Greg, what can I do for you?”

John followed Greg into the living room, hoping he didn’t look too much like someone who had burgled a house, watched a woman get shot, and had gay sex for the first time all in one night. It hadn’t been “sex” in the sense that John’s Army mates might have seen it, but as it had involved some mutual satisfaction and John hadn’t showered yet, he tried to keep away from Greg.

“Sorry, just got up,” he said, both to explain his dishevelled appearance and the reason he immediately went into the kitchen. “Tea?”

“No thanks,” said Greg. “Not really a social call— oh, morning, Sherlock.”

John turned and found Sherlock, in his dressing gown and pyjamas, heading for his violin.

“Morning, Lestrade,” he said, picking up the instrument. 

John stared at him; he had somehow managed to shave and comb his hair into its usual deceptively casual curls and didn’t look at all as if he’d just had sex. John hoped Greg hadn’t noticed that Sherlock had come down the stairs from John’s bedroom.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” asked Sherlock. “Someone died?”

He played a short sad tune. Greg smiled indulgently.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” said Greg. “Murdoch’s golden girl Kitty Riley was murdered last night.”

“Ah. In that case...”

Sherlock played a more cheerful ditty. Greg laughed.

“Yeah, can’t say anyone in the Met is going to miss her. She put some of our colleagues into a tight spot. All for the freedom of the press and what have you, but rumour has it she was actually blackmailing some people. Politicians, police commissioners, soap opera stars, that sort of thing.”

“Any idea who did it?” asked John, trying to sound innocent as he put his cup of tea on the coffee table. He returned to the kitchen to get some biscuits.

“Not specifically, but her laptop was stolen and the gun was left at the scene, which suggests it might have been a robbery gone wrong. Or one of her victims hitting back, maybe. Witnesses place three people at the scene. A biker who left through the front door just after the shots were fired and a pair of men dressed up as ninjas.”

“Kitty Riley was murdered by a biker and a pair of ninja?” asked Sherlock languidly, plunking himself into his favourite chair by the fireplace. “That should make for some interesting headlines.”

“Yeah, I’m sure the rival tabloids will come up with some terrible puns to celebrate the occasion.” Greg looked more serious. “They left her phone, by the way. Your number was on it.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I did have dealings with her...” Sherlock picked up the mug in front of him and sipped from it. “John, you know I take sugar!”

“Yes, but that’s my cup of tea,” said John, coming back with a packet of custard creams. He sat down on his own chair. “You weren’t here so I didn’t make you one.”

“Then make me one now!” demanded Sherlock.

John did consider refusing, but then he had a particular vivid flashback to Sherlock’s hand under the covers. He swallowed as blood rushed downwards. Maybe another trip to the kitchen was a good idea.

“Sure you don’t want one?” he asked Greg.

“Thanks, but I really must be going. So, yeah,” said Greg, trying to recover the flow of their conversation. “Anyway. About the ninjas. Eye witnesses said there was one tall man, about 6’2” or so, and a shorter man wearing black and grey striped socks.”

“That’s hardly helpful,” scoffed Sherlock, rolling his eyes. “You might as well start by arresting John. He owns several pairs of black and grey socks. Marks and Spencer sell them, seven for a fiver.”

“Right, so you’re not even a little intrigued?” asked Greg. “Thing is, there’s going to be massive press interest in this one, so we’re keen to wrap it up quickly. If you’re on the case, I reckon we might have the killer by the end of the week.”

John had to admit that Greg knew how to push Sherlock’s buttons. Even though he knew they couldn’t take the case, John gave Greg a sympathetic smile when he came back with Sherlock’s tea.

“With me on the case, you’d have had the killer within 24 hours,” said Sherlock grandiosely. “But no, I am not interested in finding the killer of a gutter press journalist who was instrumental in turning half the country against me and making John a laughing stock.” He ignored John’s scowl at the idea of being a laughing stock and continued. “In any case, I have personal matters to attend to. Goodbye, Lestrade.”

With that, he picked up a women’s magazine from the coffee table and pretended to read it. Greg sighed but didn’t insist; he was probably pretty used to being kicked out by Sherlock after all these years. 

“It’s okay. I’ll see myself out,” he said, shaking his head as John half-rose in his seat. “Let me know if he changes his mind. I’ll, um, leave you to your ... personal matters.”

John wondered if Greg was making innuendo but there was nothing salacious about the DI’s expression. Maybe they’d got away without Greg noticing that they were lovers now. John observed Sherlock, who looked just like his usual self-absorbed self, and found that a little difficult to believe too.

“Six hours,” said Sherlock dejectedly, tossing the magazine back onto the table as soon as Greg was gone. “I’d have had that case wrapped up in six hours. Of course, it would probably have been sooner if you hadn’t distracted me!”

John had a mouthful of biscuit so he didn’t ask what Sherlock meant. The picture on the back of the magazine caught his eye and he swallowed quickly.

“That’s her. The woman who killed Riley!”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

John stared at the photograph of the young woman, wearing her Team GB Olympic kit on an advert for some beauty product.

“Wow, no wonder she looked familiar,” said John, picking up the magazine. “She won a gold medal in 2012.”

Sherlock just grunted, dismissing the topic. John wanted to continue speculating about the poor woman’s state of mind following her husband’s suicide, but he could tell it was already ancient history as far as Sherlock was concerned, so he changed the topic.

“So when are you going out?” he asked.

“Out?”

“You said you had some personal matters to attend to.”

“No, nothing that requires going out.”

“Ah, okay.” John picked up the full mug in front of him and winced at the unfamiliar taste of sugared tea. Looking at the other mug, he realised that Sherlock had drunk all the unsweetened tea John had prepared for himself earlier.

“Actually, I thought perhaps ...” Sherlock wasn’t looking at John, and he sounded uncharacteristically hesitant. “We could go out for breakfast, or lunch. Or ... the cinema?”

Sherlock looked uncomfortable and John was vividly reminded of his recent attempts at small talk. He couldn’t suppress a grin.

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Do we have to go out on dates?” said Sherlock with a grimace. “We’ve already slept together; for that matter, we have technically already been on many dates. But if it remains a necessity even after—” He waved his hands and John realised that Sherlock, the man who apparently knew no bounds when it came to embarrassing others, was uncomfortable talking about the sex. Or perhaps he was trying to be sensitive to John’s feelings.

“Wait. Is this what all the small talk was about?” John grinned. “You were being nice to me because you fancy me.”

“Because I’m in love with you,” corrected Sherlock, his eyes lowered. “This isn’t my area. Do we have to go out together? You never enjoyed your dates with your girlfriends. I never understood why you didn’t just spend all your time together in bed when it was obviously what they wanted too.”

“Well, we _could_ go out on a date,” said John with a straight face. “Or we could go back to bed.”

Sherlock’s expression brightened. He sprang to his feet, grabbed John’s hand and pulled him into the hallway, heading for the upper level. John just laughed and followed, his hand warm and comfortable in Sherlock’s.


End file.
